


you left me in the dark

by greekdemigod



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Post-Canon, not really sure how to tag this yo, post-s2, some explicit mentions of wounds and body stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/pseuds/greekdemigod
Summary: "She doesn’t regret shooting Eve. There is no guilt, nor shame. Turns out though, she doesn’t like the consequences of her actions.And the worst part is, she doesn’t know if Eve is dead, in hiding, or avoiding her."Some post-s2 Villanelle not liking that her favorite is dead or otherwise not in her life.





	you left me in the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nearlymidnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nearlymidnight/gifts).



> Dedicated to Mica, because I love her and she is the loveliest friend anyone could wish for.

Everything inside her is a void. She knows oxygen is whispering through her lungs, blood is pumping, her mind is whirring. She keeps thinking in circles around Eve. She doesn’t feel anything.

Her hand twists into her sheets, the other holds onto her phone. Months ago, she lay here in just the same way, listening to the same three voicemails over and over again.

“You sound lovely for a dead person,” she mutters, peering at the screen, as if that can pull Eve — Eve from months ago, Eve who cared about her, an Eve that was still alive — through to the here and now of Villanelle lying in her London apartment, utterly bored.

She does feel something then, briefly, a pinprick of anger and impatience. But feelings directed at herself always fade almost instantly.

It’s not her fault. Eve just shouldn’t have been so lame.

She turns onto her side, props her head up on her arm. A lock of her hair blows away when she frustratedly sighs. Villanelle could forget about Anna and Nadia so easily, they struck like an afterthought when they crossed her mind. Eve is _always_ there, and when she’s not, it’s because her thoughts stray away from her violently, forcefully—the calm of the storm within them still Eve-shaped. So, Eve is always there.

She doesn’t regret shooting Eve. There is no guilt, nor shame. Turns out though, she doesn’t like the consequences of her actions.

And the worst part is, she doesn’t know if Eve is dead, in hiding, or avoiding her.

Her phone cracks against the wall, and some more as it splinters against the floor. It was thrown impulsively, unthinkingly; Villanelle stares at her hand, sight pulsing with rage.

Right. This isn’t going to help at all.

She gets up and toes through the bits and pieces remnants of her phone, crunches parts beneath her boot until most of it is dust, so she can fish the SIM from the remains. She takes her third new phone in as many weeks from her cache, thumbs through the set-up as her fingers drum across the back. A soft, elevator music hum escapes her lips as she chooses her language, inputs the time, connects to the wi-fi.

Niko Polastri has disappeared. Carolyn and Kenny have moved somewhere off the grid. She can’t find Konstantin. There have been no articles, no funeral announcements for stunning Asian women with great hair.

Villanelle has no good place to start searching, but that doesn’t stop her from trying every day anyway.

She is fully prepared to hurl the phone again, even though it’s finally at the point where it is synching all her text messages and voicemails from Eve, the only reason she keeps her SIM active, but she can’t.

Eve Polastri just finessed the lock on her front door and walked in like she isn’t dead.

“Oh.” Her mouth, the pretty bows of her lips, make an ‘o’ around the sound, and Villanelle wants to touch them. “I didn’t think you were still here after all this time.”

“It’s only been five weeks,” Villanelle offers, shoulders halfway a shrug. “Where else would I go?”

“MI6 has you tracked to somewhere in Eastern Europe.”

“Where did you think I was?”

Eve doesn’t respond, but she does step further into the apartment. She has her hands in the pockets of her coat, a study of a relaxed body. Either Eve _truly_ didn’t think she would be here — which Villanelle refuses to believe — or she doesn’t care to protect herself.

A constellation of emotions lances through Villanelle. She’s crackling, alight, vibrant with feeling, the way she only can around Eve.

“Do you have anything to drink?” Eve shimmies out of her coat favoring her left shoulder; Villanelle remembers exactly where her shot landed, knows enough of anatomy after a lifetime of murder to know the muscle groups it would have impacted. In her mind, she can almost see the way those nerves would pinch around the scar, and her fingers suddenly itch to touch it, her lips to brush against it. “I’m thirsty.”

“Of course,” Villanelle responds sweetly, giving a mock-bow as she skips to her fridge.

The irony of the champagne is not lost on her. It’s the same brand as the ones Eve smashed in Paris.

It bubbles and fizzes with equal excitement as broils and toils in Villanelle’s gut.

“Cheers. To both of us surviving a back stab.”

Eve pauses, the glass held still against her bottom lip, eyes calculating. A slow sip. Another. And then she chucks the rest into Villanelle’s face.

Just like that, split of a second, the start of a breath, Villanelle returns the favor. She marvels at the drops sliding down Eve’s temples and over her eyes, slipping down her throat.

It’s not as nice to feel it on her own, the slight burn of it, the sheer waste of it. She sucks it off her lip, then shakes her head softly. “If you need to get something out of your system, I’ll give you water instead.”

“No, I’m good now.”

Eve takes a seat at the edge of Villanelle’s bed, where the covers are still pushed together into a messy heap, and holds out her glass expectantly. She arches an eyebrow, but she tilts the neck of the bottle up onto the glass anyway and tips a few ounces of golden drink into it.

Villanelle wants to settle in Eve’s lap, suck the champagne from her skin, show the agent how much she has missed her. But she isn’t quite ready to be rejected again, to feel the urge to reach for the gun in her nightstand and finish what she started.

So she takes a chair, spins it, sits on it backwards, across from Eve with a gratuitous foot and a half of space between them. She flings the glass aside — shivers as it crashes so deliciously onto the floor — and continues sipping from the bottle.

She can’t stop looking at Eve. She looks—much the same, but not entirely. Older, as if she has aged months in her recovery. A little angry, or a little exasperated. Not wary, though, or scared. She has never been this closed-off to Villanelle, such steel in her eyes, and she has never been so accessible. This messed-up Eve, and not the morals-concerned agent, is someone that could love Villanelle back.

“Can I see the scar?”

Eve chuckles, low and throaty. “I never saw yours.”

So Villanelle pulls at her button-down, rips it out of her pants, and sticks the fabric between her teeth so that her finger can trail across the faint mark. Despite all her prodding and worrying the wound, it didn’t leave much scar tissue. She’s a little sad for that.

Eve downs her glass, puts it on the floor, and gives Villanelle one last look before turning around. The top she wears has a low cut in the back, as if she knew she would be showing it to her. It is an ugly scar, raised flesh criss-crossed with lines where the thread stitched it together. There are puncture wounds from within, bits of shattered bone that exploded outwards. So she did clip the shoulder blade, then. What a bitch that must be.

Villanelle can’t help herself. She so rarely doesn’t finish the job, few people boast scars by her hand. But Eve, _her_ Eve, does. Her hand slides up against her back, up until she has the almost oval shape of it between her thumb and pointer finger.

“It suits you.”

“You’re an asshole.”

She kisses the skin above it and feels Eve freeze against her mouth. Kisses below it, feels a shiver race around it. Kisses against it and lingers, inhaling the lily scent of Eve’s hair, the sweat and realness of her. “Life was a little boring when you were dead.”

“Then don’t kill me again.”

“Okay. More champagne?”

Eve leans back into her, fumbles the bottle from her grasp. “I think I’ll take all of it. You shot me, after all.”

“When will you get over that?” Villanelle nuzzles into Eve’s neck, nips at the base of her shoulder, grins a wolf's toothy grin against the convulsion of pain that ripples through the muscles beneath her bite. “It’s been five weeks.”

“Well.” She feels the intake of the woman’s breath against her. “My husband wants nothing to do with me anymore, I can’t work for MI6 ever again, and I don’t have any friends, apparently.” Softer, indecipherably hollow: “You’re all I have left.”

Electricity courses through her. Her heart thunders like a volcano eruption. She is so full of feeling, so to the brim and overflowing, that she shakes. She has never felt anything like this. But if she is all Eve has, then, finally.

Her arms settle around Eve’s waist possessively, her mouth finds the hidden spot behind her ear, and Villanelle marks the woman her own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
